


hollow faces like old friends

by catoptrictristesse



Category: Bleach
Genre: Complete Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8813341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catoptrictristesse/pseuds/catoptrictristesse
Summary: The winter snow fell onto his father's grave in delicate, fractal flakes like a choreographed dance. He stood from a distance and watched the two most important women in his father's life mourn together; their tears sliding into nothingness. 
Kurosaki Kazui uncovers the family secret, and in the process, discovers many things about himself, his father's past, and his mother. 
Completely and utterly canon-divergent, and possibly very angsty.





	1. Chapter One

_Dear Rukia,_

 

_Fuck, I miss you._

 

_I promised myself that I would not let myself feel like this again. We promised ourselves, but somehow I don’t think you’re holding up your end of the bargain too well either. I miss you._

 

_I’m here, studying to be a fucking doctor when all I dream of at night is the battlefield._

 

_Sometimes I wonder, do I deserve to save when I have taken away so many lives? We never thought about these things when we were younger, we didn’t care enough._

 

_Is it that bad that whenever I dream of all that blood and destruction, the terror of a blade pushing against my skin and having no weapon to defend myself, it’s always you that saves me, and not Orihime?_

 

_I wish it was still you and me in that cabin in the blizzard. Us against the world, like always, with our friends behind us._

 

_I wish you had never left._

 

_Ichigo_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The name was not completely unfamiliar to Kazui, but his father had never liked talking about her. 

 

He sat in the dusty archives of his father’s study, letting a whirlwind of papers and lost memories slowly absorb themselves into his skin. The winter sunlight struck the dust particles floating in the air and for a moment, it looked like it was snowing. 

 

He’d wondered who Rukia was, for many years. She was always present like an after thought, an invisible being that he knew had been important to both his parents but they never spoke openly about her— whenever his mother or either of his uncles Uryū and Sado brought her up, his father seemed to retreat in his shell, hiding from something that Kazui had no idea about. 

 

And now he knew why: his father had been in love with her. 

 

Kurosaki Ichigo had passed away less than a day ago in his sleep, quietly and next to his wife of fifty odd years. Kazui had known him as a protector, someone who terrified the shadows and had a streak of endless kindness and love behind his ever-present scowl. The person who had taught him how to ride a bike, who picked him up when he scraped his knees, and a constant pillar of strength through difficult times. 

 

And now Kazui was his heir; the inheritor of these half-formed and disintegrating legacies. 

 

He knew that there had been a war, some terrible and encompassing war that had happened on a completely different plane of existence— he knew that there were things beyond this world and most imaginations, but the time he lived in had been peaceful. 

 

His father told him stories not of war-heroes, but of those that sacrificed themselves for others; names like Ukitake Jūshiro, Kuchiki Byakuya, Ichimaru Gin. He was taught that even those who seem evil have their own stories, that the light is not always divided into black and white, but the shadows under your bed can sometimes too, be a kind of light in itself. 

 

“Still hiding in your father’s study?” a voice came from behind him. He half turned, to see the visitor more clearly. 

 

“Did you know?” he asked simply, throwing a hand out to the bundle of letters scattered on the floor. “Did my mother know about any of this?” 

 

She drifted along to where he was sitting, the dust moving through her like the way a silk screen ripples when a wind blows across it. Even though she was practically translucent but for her faint outline, he could tell that her expression was wary, wondering if he was angry about the entire situation. 

 

When she had determined that he was not in fact, angry, but just weary, she responded: “I knew about it. I think to some extent, your mother did as well, but she never brought it up. You were happy, your whole family was. Why bring up some past love to spoil it?” 

 

Deep down, somehow he knew that this Rukia was not just a past love. She had lived in the secret twinkles of his father’s eyes, the tinge of sadness that crossed his smile when he looked at his wife, the faded blue dress tucked away in the corner of the attic. She had _lived_. 

 

“You’re right,” he admitted, and gathered up the letters; the sun had set so quickly in the few minutes that the light was no longer right for reading. 

 

Most of the guests from the wake last night had gone home, only his mother, his two aunts and honorary uncles sat in the living room, talking quietly. His mother looked like she had aged twenty years in a day, the silver in her hair streaking the light orange and her hands were trembling slightly. 

 

Coming down from the stairs, his Uncle Sado gave him a smile that was so filled with sadness and comfort that he felt like a child again, crying over the death of a loved pet. 

 

“She’s here,” he heard his mother say. “Kazui, would you get the door, please?” 

 

The doorbell had not been rung, neither had a car pulled up in front of their house, but he knew better than to question his mother’s instincts. She had the uncanny knack of making plants grow better than they usually would, and for healing scrapes and bruises in a minute or two. It was a magic that he had never questioned. 

 

Padding lightly towards the door, a gentle knock sounded, and he had the door open in a minute or two. 

 

On the doorstep was a petite woman with hair so soft and dark that it seemed to glitter with a life of its own, wrapped warmly in wool and fur and a pale pink scarf. She looked up at him, and her eyes glinted purple. 

 

“Kurosaki Kazui,” she said, in a voice that seemed to conjure images of ebony and steel, sheathed in silk. “I wish that we had met on a happier occasion.” 

 

He stood numbly back as she entered the house like it was her own, taking off her heavy boots and donning the embroidered rabbit slippers that no one had used in so many years. 

 

She laughed quietly to herself and pointed at a gouge in the wall— “It’s still here?” she asked, eyes distant like she was remembering a far off dream. 

 

And even though he did know, somewhere deep down inside him, he still had to ask. 

 

“Sorry but— who are you?” 

 

She turned back to look at him, and smiled gently, those purple eyes so dark they could be mistaken for black. 

 

“I’m Kuchiki Rukia.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kazui asks questions that are pointless, and a ghost girl teases him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can we just pretend that the thousand year blood arc never happened?

 

* * *

 

If this was a dream or a story, it could not have played out any stranger. 

 

Kuchiki Rukia, the Rukia of his father’s letters and supposedly, around his father’s age, unless— he didn’t even want to go there really, but at the core of it, what really baffled him was that she looked like she hadn’t aged a day from twenty-five. 

 

“So, that’s her,” his ghostly companion drifted through a nearby wall, her skirts motionless even with the movement. “Her eyes are pretty, I guess.” 

 

“I thought she would be more around mom’s age,” Kazui says in an undertone, pretending to be arranging the plants scattered in the main entrance. “Not some… I don’t even know? What was dad up to?” 

 

“Oh, Kazui,” she said, almost pityingly. “People like us don’t ever age.” 

 

And then, he understood. 

 

“She’s a ghost?” he whispered. 

 

“Well, why don’t you ask her yourself?” 

 

* * *

 

He entered the living room to see his mother and Rukia in a tight embrace— everyone seemed so happy to see her that he felt like an outsider looking in. 

 

“You haven’t aged a day, Rukia-san,” his mother said, a sad smile creeping onto her face. Rukia cupped her cheek gently and stared into her eyes, both women slipping into the comfortable familiarity of old friends. 

 

Both his uncles hugged her tightly like they were greeting a comrade in arms, and even his aunts looked up to her like she was the sun. 

 

“He’s in the other room,” his mother said, taking Rukia’s hand. “I put off the burial for as long as possible because I knew you would want to say goodbye.” 

 

“Thank you, Orihime.” Rukia said, and she left to see his father. 

 

Kazui thought of his father in the other room, the room they barely used except for when special guests came. He imagined his father’s still face, scowling even in death, his orange hair faded and streaked heavily with grey. 

 

Would she lift that heavy glass case, and kiss his brow? Would she cry like his mother had, the tears ceaseless and terrible? Or would she stand there, motionless like he had, not quite able to believe that his father would really never be able to open his eyes again? 

 

His aunts began to excuse themselves— they had families to get back to, lives to lead. He saw them to the door and exchanged hugs with both of them, before he worked up the courage to ask them what he’d been thinking of all day. 

 

“Who was she to my parents?” he blurted out right before he opens the door. 

 

In the half light, he saw how tired they looked, the quiet weariness of tragedy settling on their bones. 

 

“She was very important to your father, and to your mother as well,” Yuzu said, enveloping his hand in hers and patting it. “It’s such a shame that she hasn’t been around much.” 

 

“Don’t worry your head too much about it, kid,” Karin ruffled his hair and tugged on her scarf. “I think you’ll like her, and she’s going to be around for awhile, so you two can at least get to know each other.” 

They weren’t the answers he was looking for, but neither had he asked the right questions. He opened the door and waved them off, watching their colourful mufflers grow smaller into the distance. 

 

His uncle Uryū was in the kitchen, making a pot of tea. 

 

Kazui fell into line beside him, slicing up an apple just the way the very same uncle had taught him, thin wedges that were almost equal in size, and the edges so thin they tasted like air. Uryū nodded appreciatively, and offered a plate to place the apple. 

 

“Did you know Kuchiki-san very well too, uncle?” he asked, sliding the slices onto the plate. 

 

“Not as well as your parents, maybe, but I looked up to her,” Uryū said. “She was a formidable woman, even back then.” 

 

They entered the living room again, and Kazui saw that Rukia had come out— but if she had cried, he had no way of knowing, because she was engaged in quiet conversation with his mother and another uncle, her eyes flashing and unblemished. 

 

He excused himself, and went upstairs to his secret stash of letters. 

 

“She did cry, if that’s what you were wondering,” his friend drifted into his room. “I think she must have really loved him, because she looked almost as sad as your mother did.” 

 

“It’s not nice to spy, Kyoko.” he said with a tone of reprimand, although he had wondered about that exact same thing. 

 

“A younger version of you would have disagreed,” she lamented, and kicked back onto his bed. “And look who’s calling the kettle black.” 

 

He ignored her, and opened another letter carefully. 

 

* * *

 

_Dear Rukia,_

 

_In my nightmares, all of those dearest to me are dead, and I am the ones who killed you._

 

_I wake up with the memories of twisted and mangled bodies, Ishida’s glasses crushed underfoot, Sado’s arm broken at a strange angle, Inoue staring back at me with glassless, unseeing eyes. And I see you, impaled upon my sword. (God knows you’ve impaled me at least three times without consequences, but this is different.) And in those dreams, you never forgive me._

 

_The leaves have begun to fall, and medical school isn’t getting much easier. Makes me wonder how my old man did it, what with all these tests and reviews. I’m swimming up to my ears in terminology._

 

_Makes me wonder why more healers and doctors aren’t considered heroes, while those who swing their great big swords are worshipped without question._

 

_God, that used to be me._

 

_I think about you sometimes. What you’re doing, what made you laugh today or smile without reservation. I think about how we didn’t have enough time together off the battlefield. I wonder if you would recognise me at all, today._

 

_I think about how I’m never going to send these letters, and you’re never going to read these anyway._

 

_I miss you._

 

_Ichigo._

 

* * *

 

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Kazui said. “He loved my mother, I know he did. But how could he have loved her so much too?” 

 

Kyoko clicked her tongue at him and rolled her eyes, glancing over his shoulder at the letter. 

 

“Well, you’ve never been in love, so how would you know?” she told him. 

 

He flushed scarlet, but continued on. “I’m sure I can at least _imagine_.” 

 

“Love isn’t as straightforward as in those books of yours, Kazui. Love is terrible, it destroys, it complicates. It was what killed me, for one.” she drew a finger over her throat playfully, and he shuddered inwardly. 

 

He heard his mother’s step on the stair, and threw the letters underneath his pillow and picked up a book, while Kyoko snickered behind her hand, and pretended to look bored when Orihime came in. 

 

“Kazui, darling, would you mind making the spare room up for Rukia-san?” she asked him. “She’s going to be staying with us for a while.” 

 

He nodded, and put his book away. 

 

“Looks like you’re going to be able to get some answers after all,” Kyoko said. “That is, if you have the guts to really find out what you want to know.” 

 

She grinned at him, and disappeared. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the funeral, & etc.

The winter snow fell onto his father's grave in delicate, fractal flakes like a choreographed dance. He stood from a distance and watched the two most important women in his father's life mourn together; their tears sliding into nothingness. 

 

The funeral had been over for awhile now, and the very last stragglers had gone home; and there was nothing left but the whistling of the wind in his ears. From the corner of his eye, a black cat underneath a lamp-post meowed in the cold. 

 

He’d met more people than he’d ever care to meet again in his life— for some reason, a blond man with an unnerving grin with a smaller blonde woman in tow wanted to know about his spirit power, or whatever he’d been babbling about, before being hustled away by some other equally strange looking people. The last man, a large, pink haired individual had patted him heavily on the head and given him chocolate like he was a child. Chocolate never stopped tasting good, even though he _was_ twenty four years old. 

 

“Hey kid, sorry I’m late.” a well worn hand ruffled his hair and he was greeted by a familiar smile. “The plane was delayed by the damn snow.” 

 

Out of all his relatives, real or adopted, his favourite had always been his aunt Tatsuki. Her work as a journalist had made their visits infrequent and at times quite short, but he would never cease to be enthralled by her tales of countries other than their own, escapades that seemed so unreal and yet so visceral, with her storytelling style. His mother still had a scrapbook filled with Tatsuki’s pieces, from the time she just started working as a journalist. 

 

“I tried to get here as soon as I could, practically had to bribe the damn pilot just to—” she stopped suddenly, following his gaze, which landed on Rukia’s form. 

 

He watched her expression turn cold, as if she didn’t quite know what to feel. 

 

“Do you know her too?” he asked curiously. How many lives had Rukia touched? 

 

“I used to,” Tatsuki said shortly. “Not too well, though.” 

 

And then as if on cue, his mother turned around and caught sight of Tatsuki, and before long, she was rushing up to give her best friend a tight hug, tears of happiness spilling out of her eyes. 

 

“Don’t run, you silly thing,” Tatsuki mock-chastised. “Don’t you have some kind of knee injury?” 

 

“That was last year, Tatsuki. It’s been too long.” his mother said, still hugging her. 

 

Rukia had followed at a much more leisurely pace, tracking through the snow. 

 

“Rukia,” Tatsuki nodded curtly, holding Orihime tightly in one arm. To Kazui, it looked like she was showing some form of dominance, protecting his mother from a perceived threat. 

 

“Tatsuki,” Rukia said with a small smile. “How nice to see you again.” 

 

“It’s been a long time,” his aunt replied. “Hasn’t it?” 

 

“Too long.” Rukia said. 

 

Oblivious to the growing tensions, his mother perked up and took hold of his hand, smiling at him. Kazui smiled back, but he couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the lines on his mother’s face. 

 

“Shall we go home then? I have a lovely red-bean and cucumber soup waiting on the stove for us.” she gestured to the other two women. “Oh, but I think we need to stop by Urahara’s shop and get those special plums…” 

 

“I’ll do it,” he volunteered. “You should go home and rest, mother.” 

 

“My sweet boy,” Orihime said, and patted his cheek. “So thoughtful.” 

 

For a moment, he thought that she was about to cry again, but she turned away and extended her hands to Tatsuki and Rukia. “Shall we?” 

 

“I think I’ll go with Kazui to Urahara’s,” Rukia said. “I should go say hello, since I’m in town, and you two should have time on your own to catch up.” 

 

She looked expectantly at Kazui, who shrugged. 

 

“Alright,” Orihime agreed, and took Tatsuki’s hand. He watched them walk down the snowy steps, his mother resolutely not looking back. She’d told him stories about how Tatsuki had always had her back, as a protector, the best of friends. She’d talked about always standing behind her, being protected— but now they were walking side by side as equals. 

 

When he turned back to face Rukia, she was looking at him with a slight smile on her face. 

 

“Shall we?” she gestured, and they started off on the familiar route to Urahara’s shop. 

 

“When was the last time you were here, Kuchiki-san?” he asked neutrally as they trudged through the snow. 

 

“A long time ago, before you were even born, actually.” 

 

The age gap didn’t make sense at all— she looked barely older than him. 

 

“How did you know my parents?” 

 

“Well, I knew your father first, and it’s quite a funny story, actually,” she laughed quietly to herself. 

 

He pounced eagerly on the tidbit of information and asked, “Will you tell it to me?” 

 

“Maybe one day,” she continued looking at the ground as they walked. “We have a while until I go back, and I have many more stories to tell.” 

 

He had more questions swimming up to the tip of his tongue, but they were quickly extinguished by the falling snow and the fact that they were quickly approaching the familiar wooden structure that was where Urahara lived. 

 

The door to the shop jangled open, and a swirl of snowflakes followed them in. 

 

“Ah, Kazui— and Kuchiki-san.” Urahara pushed himself slowly down the ramp on his wheelchair, face spreading in a wide grin. “What brings you here today?” 

 

Yoruichi and Tessai appeared in the doorway as well, waving at them. 

 

Urahara took Kazui’s hand in his, and patted it. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for the funeral, but I find it difficult to travel, in this weather.” 

 

“And he has a cold,” Tessai warned. “So we made sure he couldn’t go.” 

 

Urahara chuckled sheepishly. “These two take good care of me.” 

 

“It’s quite alright,” Kazui said, feeling slightly embarrassed. “We’re practically family, you don’t need to explain anything.” 

 

“Get out of the doorway and come have some tea,” Yoruichi said, coming over to manhandle Urahara’s wheelchair and push it out of the way. “Kazui, I have those plums your mother always wants. Tell her not to eat them so quickly this time, plums are so hard to get in the winter.” 

 

He didn’t ask how she knew that— people around here just knew things. 

 

Kazui went to the back to help Yoruichi & Tessai get the tea things while Urahara and Rukia chatted outside privately. 

 

“So Rukia will be staying at your house for the next few weeks?” Tessai asked him, deftly arranging a plate of sweets. 

 

“Looks like it,” he replied. 

 

“Ah, you two can get to know each other better then,” Yoruichi smiled at him. “She probably has a lot of stories about your father, and she’s always been a good influence on your family.” 

 

In the dim light, Kazui’s brow furrowed. So far, everything he’d heard about Rukia had painted her out to be some kind of saint, a guardian angel or someone that came into people’s lives and touched it, leaving them changed forever after. 

 

They brought the tea things out, and spoke no more about it. 

 

* * *

 

That night after dinner, he retreated for an early night to his room, and dug out the short stack of letters once again. 

 

“Well?” Kyoko said expectantly, already on his bed the moment he walked through the door. 

 

He flopped onto the bed with the letters and a sigh, words muffled by his pillow. “I didn’t really get anything out of her.” 

 

“You weren’t asking the right questions,” Kyoko told him with a sniff. 

 

“Maybe I’m not quite sure what to ask,” he admitted. “I feel like people have been hiding this big secret from me for my entire life, and— well, I’m not quite sure if I want to find out, or force them to bring up these bad memories.” 

 

“You, the only child from a generation of warriors…” she trailed off thoughtfully.

 

“I don’t know where to start,” he said. 

 

“Ask her about herself,” Kyoko suggested. “About her past, things like that. People love talking about themselves, it gives them a comfortable place to start.” 

 

“I think I will,” he nodded, and carefully unfolded a letter. 

 

* * *

 

_Dear Rukia,_

 

_The snow is falling like shooting stars to the ground, and even though I’m not a poet, I think it looks pretty damn beautiful, and I sure wish I had the words to describe it to you._

 

_Today Orihime and I went on our first date, to the ice-skating rink. We held hands and laughed and did all that crazy couple stuff. And well, since I’m never going to send this, I did like it. If it was possible to be in love with two people at once, I think this is the closest I’m ever going to get to it._

 

_If you were a thunderstorm, coming into my life like a whirlwind and changing it for good, Orihime is like the fireplace I come home to at night, when the rains have left me. I do love her, but I can’t say it’s exactly the same way I love you._

 

_But then, she loves me so unwaveringly that I almost hate myself for it— she deserves better._

 

_She deserves someone that can love her the way that I love you._

 

_And us?_

 

_Well, we deserve each other, strange hybrid creatures that we are, living in separate worlds and fated to never touch again._

 

_God, I really miss you._

 

_Ichigo_. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Kyoko,” he asked, lying there in the darkness. “How did you die? And before that, how did you know that you were in love?” 

 

He couldn’t quite see her face, obscured by the long dark hair that framed it, but her hands glowed ghostly pale, working smoothly on a piece of embroidery that never seemed to be finished, even when he was younger. 

 

“I died for love,” she said, still working busily. “And I knew that I was in love because I would die for her.” 

 

He stared at her needle moving in and out of the cloth, and then fell asleep, dreaming of pale hands clutching at his throat. 

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the short, angsty fic that i literally spat out in like one hour this morning. so just a couple of things for this canon-divergent story:   
> 1\. Kazui has no shinigami powers at all, the most he can do is see ghosts.   
> 2\. Ichigo & Rukia have never met since Kazui's birth.   
> 3\. Kazui doesn't know the full extent of his parents' past (which, of course is the point of exploration in this fic).


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